Third time
by Seelenspiel
Summary: “I won’t fall in love with you a third time,” rage snarls. Because it’s just too easy to silence hope with despair. And too simple to exchange revenge for love. Cloti


Disclaimer: Neither own Cloud or Tifa unfortunately.

I wrote this a few months back and finally decided to publish it.

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It's been a day since they had defeated Sephiroth again. _Since Cloud defeated him again_, she reminds herself voicelessly.

Because it's not like she's done much to help. Sure, she'd set him on the right path, but that had pretty much been all of there was to it.

If not for Marlene she'd probably been finished off by Loz. And she didn't even want to think about Bahamut if Cloud hadn't come in time to rescue her.

---

It's been a day since he had been cured. The celebrations were still in full swing, the 7th Heaven overflowing with old comrades, music and laughter.

"He's been watching you, girl," Rude tells her nervously, his hand touching her shoulder lightly. "Not once have his eyes left you."

She smiles in reply – goofy and disbelieving – and pours down another wodka lemon, courtesy of her own bar. Her eyes wander to the moody blond haired warrior next to Vincent.

He's so stunningly handsome that she tears her eyes away immediately when his beautiful, beautiful aquamarine eyes – _that will never look upon you as a woman_, she reminds herself - fix on hers.

"He might just kill me," Rude laughs hesitantly, removing his arm from her shoulder reluctantly.

"Call me if you ever need a real man," Reno grins, ignoring the coldness that seems to burn the room. Before she can respond her hand is in a firm hold and she's been pulled off the bar stool and onto her feet.

"Come," Cloud says, shooting Reno an annoyed glance. "We need to talk."

It's so absurd that she actually laughs. Cloud pauses and for a moment there's uncertainty in his eyes. _Maybe he wonders if I'm insane, _she thinks. _Maybe he's not so far off, _she admits.

---

He stops a few feet outside the door when she stumbles.

"Tifa, you're drunk," he sighs, holding her with steady hands.

"I might be," she freely admits. She pushes his warm hands off and leans back against the wall instead. "What's it to you?" It sounds so bitter that she actually bites her lip afterwards.

He watches her cautiously, a man drowning in tentativeness and choking on air.

The silence becomes so overbearing that she sighs and turns her head away.

He's struggling with words, with gestures and deeds. He has never been emotional and he just doesn't know how to start a conversation. How to express his thoughts, how to overcome his worries – and guilt – and the years spent in hell.

But she needs some reassurance, he knows. She's standing on the thin line between insanity and madness and her foot has already been lifted to take the final step.

"I care about you," he murmurs, because that's the only thing that comes to his mind at this moment. And the only thing he thinks she might actually want to hear.

And gods, she wants to laugh again. He sounds so earnest, his eyes fixed on hers, his hands fumbling with his clothes. Maybe he actually believes his words, maybe the lies come easy to him now.

She closes her eyes, fighting with promises and broken trust. When she opens them again they are unfathomable and for an inane second he wonders if he's been too good of an instructor.

She's a stranger in her own shell, broken and fixed and broken again way too many times to count. She's the worthless actor who stopped being able to smile and laugh on cue.

Her hands are clenched, the fingernails like splinters against her skin. She wants to draw blood.

---

"You left me," rationality says. There's venom and defeat in her voice and for a second she doesn't recognize herself anymore. For a second she is scared of the wreck she has become and the hurt that cuts so deep.

---

"For a reason," emotion disagrees. She knows – when she thinks about it rationally - that he probably just didn't want to add to her problems. That he simply didn't want her to watch him die.

---

"You came back," hope adds. Because she needs – _needs_ – him by her side so much that it's unhealthy and sick.

Her words are so contradictory it makes him pause. His eyes mako-blue and vulnerable. For a second the voices are silent, contemplating, waiting.

---

"Too late," truth finally whispers, cutting through emotion and hope and love and rationality. Invisible blood covers the cracked pieces on the ground and he finally makes a move.

His arms encircle her slowly, pulling her shaking form closer. His hand strokes her head carefully.

---

"I won't fall in love with you a third time," rage snarls. Because it's just too easy to silence hope with despair. And too simple to exchange revenge for love.


End file.
